


Softly Falling Snowflakes

by i_am_still_bb



Series: Gathering Fiki - 12 Days of Christmas (2019) [3]
Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Return to Treasure Island (TV 1996)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Tree, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21878326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_still_bb/pseuds/i_am_still_bb
Summary: Written for Gathering FiKi's 12 Days of Christmas (2019)--Ross has always loved everything about the winter; snow, ice, the cold, and Christmas. Then he meets Jim and has ever more things to love about winter. And he shares his love of everything cold and wintery with Jim.
Relationships: Jim Hawkins/Ross Poldark
Series: Gathering Fiki - 12 Days of Christmas (2019) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1570915
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16
Collections: GatheringFiKi - 12 Days OF Christmas 2019





	Softly Falling Snowflakes

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Linane's gorgeous photoset! Check it out here!

Ross has always loved the snow. He loved the low clouds, the long nights, and the twilights that lasted all day. He revelled in the thick white blankets that would soften all the sharp and harsh edges of the world. He took delight in the silence that came with it. He enjoyed the latency snow that snow provided. He knew if the post had arrived because the mailman had left deep footprints in the drifting snow, evidence that would vanish within hours and was already fading away as the impressions filled with snow blown by the persistent wind.

* * *

The one thing that he did _not_ like was how wet and melting snow would build up and cake the soles of his canvas shoes. It would get so bad that walking became a dangerous endeavor as he rocked and slide on sidewalks across campus and across town. He would often stop and scrap the snow off by dragging the bottoms of his shoes on the curbs, bus stop benches, and any other sharp edged surface he could find. It was not a perfect solution by any means, but it worked. This minor inconvenience did not deter Ross’ enjoyment of the weather.

Today, however, he just did not have the time. He had woken up late and then he could not find one of his shoes. After much swearing and kicking of things he manages to find the errant shoe, but he is already late and he has no time to find his coat so he runs out the door with nothing but a sweatshirt. It is the tail end of the semester and he is running around turning in papers, dropping off projects, and returning library books. But, these things are all in separate buildings on different parts of campus separated by miles of city in between.

He squeezes himself into an open spot on the bus while ignoring the nasty look the girl he just climbed over was giving him. He shoves his earbuds in and stares out the fogged up window while carefully holding the pile of books on his lap so that they do not slide all over the place.

The same girl had not moved by the time the bus reached Ross’ next stop. He climbed over her again and stumbled—his books sliding. He dismounts the bus and begins walking. The snow that had accumulated on his shoes had not entirely melted and he is sliding already. The snow is always thickest in the middle of the sole, and he rocks with each step. He shifts everything to get a look at his watch. He has less than 10 minutes to turn in his history paper. He starts taking longer steps, but each step is less stable, but he is making good time.

A car horn screams and tires squeal. Ross whirls around to check, half-expecting to see his impending death moments away. But there is nothing there. Ross turns back to make his way to the liberal arts building. He steps on a patch of slushy snow and immediately loses his balance.

He crashes hard on to the pavement. His books scatter everywhere. His knee and his hands sting.

He groans.

He slowly pushes himself to his feet and examines the palms of his hands. They are torn and tiny bits of rocks, salt, and pavement are embedded in his skin. He brushes his pants off and inspects the tear in his pants and the state of his knee. Then he sets about picking up his belongings while the flow of foot traffic parted around his crash site, albeit with frequent dirty looks.

The pages of one book flutter in the breeze and a piece of paper that he had stashed between the pages flies free. Ross lunges for it, not knowing if it is a piece of scrap paper or something important—with his current luck it is probably the later. The wind carries it further and beyond his grasp.

He stares at it only to see the wind catch the edge again just before a black boot stomps on it. The owner of the boot picks the paper up and looks at it. 

He holds it out to Ross. “Looks like you could use some help,” he says gesturing to the books whose covers are growing soggy in the melting snow.

“Thanks,” Ross takes the paper. “Yeah.” He looks at the books, but before he can say anything else the other man is scooping up the books and wiping their covers off with his gloved hand.

“That was a nasty spill,” the man said with a smile, dimples flashing. “You alright?”

Ross nods and takes the books from him, wincing when the weight of them presses into his hands. He shrugs, “I’m fine. Though, I can’t say the same for my pants.” He kicks his leg out to reveal the tear.

“It’s certainly not going to keep you any warmer,” he surveys Ross’ attire. “Though maybe that’s not really a concern?”

Ross anxiously shifts from one foot to the other. Now that the books have been retrieved he is reminded of the ticking deadline, and he has no idea how much time has passed since he last looked at his watch. “I couldn’t find my coat and I’m really running late. Thanks for—”

The stranger interrupts by pulling his thick, cream colored scarf off and winds it around Ross’ neck—he has to stand on tiptoe. “I may not be able to help with coat, but this should help.”

“I—”

“I thought you were running late?” His eyebrows quirk mischievously.

“I am,” Ross turns and starts to hurry away. A corner of his mind silently panicking and worrying that he will be too late. But he stops and turns around to see the man still standing there straightening his hat and turning up his coat collar., “I don’t know you; how do I get this back to you?” Ross nods to the scarf.

“You’ll just have to find me!” 

* * *

Ross returns to that bus stop every time he has more than a few minutes to spare. The scarf, freshly laundered, is carefully folded in his bag, But he never sees him. He sees crowds of students and holiday shoppers and the grey stone buildings rising from the pavement as more snow floats to the ground. But he does not see the man with his blonde hair, his dimples, and his large black boots.

After the holiday break Ross considers the scarf and whether he should keep trying to find its owner. The intricate cables and the lack of a tag makes Ross sure that it was handmade by a mother, grandmother, _“or girlfriend,”_ his unhelpful brain supplies. He stuffs it in a plastic bag to protect it from his notebooks, snacks, and other belongings, and returns it to his backpack. But he stops going out of his way. He stops looking.

* * *

Two weeks into the semester he is riding the bus. His headphones are in and he is trying to read a printout on the ecological benefits of wildfires despite the rocking and swaying of the bus as it barrels around corners with seeming indifference to anything else on the road.. But something makes Ross look up. He never figures out what caught his attention and dragged him away from his reading. Three rows in front of him, in the lower portion of the bus, is someone wearing a slouchy, cream colored hat. The cables match those on the scarf secreted away in the bottom of his backpack. 

He almost trips in his haste as he grabs his bag and unceremoniously stuffs his reading into it and drags the plastic bag out by its handles, all the while descending the few steps that will carry him to the empty seat next to the man in the cream colored hat.

He drops into to empty seat, startling the other occupant of the row. He removes his earbuds and looks at Ross. His blue eyes all the more blue next to the hat and his pale skin reddened by the winter winds.

“I believe I have something of yours,” Ross pulls the scarf from the plastic sack.

The man grins. Dimples appearing instantly. “Yes, you do,” He takes the scarf and offers his hand. “Jim.”

“Ross.”

* * *

Their first kiss tastes like winter. All cold, fresh, and thrilling. Ross savors the feeling of Jim’s cold nose against his cheek, the whisper of Jim’s eyelashes against his skin. The contrast between cold skin, the brisk wind, the quiet of a winter night, and the warm slide of tongues is intoxicating.

Snowflakes glitter in Jim’s golden hair beneath the street lights. Everything about him seems to sparkle and glisten. His nose and his cheeks are pink. His teeth flash white in the dim light. Ross goes in for another kiss. He no longer notices his chilled toes, or his icy fingertips; warmth blooms in his chest and spreads from there.

* * *

Ross quietly closes the door, careful not to make much noise and wake Jim’s roommates. He steps off the porch and is delighted to find a mid-March snowstorm whipping snowflakes through the air before they land on the ground to melt away.

His jacket is open, but he does not bother zipping it; he is warm. He tips his head back to feel the cool kiss of snowflakes when they fall on his face. The street is quiet during the early hours of the morning. He would have stayed with Jim, but he has an early class and he had left his books in his campus housing. He had not foreseen what was to unfold, otherwise he would have been better prepared. He feels the tug to turn back and sneak back into the small yellow house through the front door and down the hallway to the bedroom where he had left Jim warm, pliant, and naked beneath his blankets.

Ross smiles at the memory—everything is right with the world at that moment—he sticks his tongue out to taste the newly fallen snow.

* * *

Graduation is in three months. They are both riding high on adrenaline, but also chafing at the delay. Ross found ways of dragging Jim away from his books when he was studying. 

“If you get a C in this class, is it _really_ going to stop you from graduating?” Ross asks slowly from his sprawling position in one one of the library’s chairs. Large windows take up the wall of the library and Ross can see most of this portion of campus with its thin layer of slushy snow and low, dark clouds.

“Shush,” Jim flicks his fingers in Ross’ direction. Another hand cradles his head and he frowns at his readings.

“I think you need a break.”

“Quiet,” Jim shoves Ross’ foot with his own.

“For a pirate, you’re not much fun,” Ross whines dramatically.

This time Jim looks up. “What?”

“For a pirate—” Ross starts to repeat himself.

“Pirate?”

“Yes,” Ross waves his hand dismissively. “A pirate. It’s the beard,” he draws a triangle beneath his own stubbly chin.

Jim’s hand snaps to his beard. He had been growing it out and over the Christmas break it had long enough that he was able to put in a small braid with a bead at the end. Ross would be lying if he said he did not like how Jim looked with the beard all wrapped up in his coat, hat, and scarf. “I don’t see how that makes me a pirate,” he grumbles, but turns back to his book, and the sound of pencil scratching on paper resumes.

“I was wrong.”

“Hmm?”

“I was wrong.”

Jim sighs, “About what?”

“About you being a pirate.”

“Okay.” Jim rolls his eyes to himself and tries to go back to work. He ignores Ross when he shuffles around and stands.

“You’re really more of a dwarf.”

“I am not,” Jim snaps. 

Ross steps closer. “Are so. You are short,” he ignores the indignant noise Jim makes, “and you have this,” he lifts Jim’s chin and playfully scratches his jaw.

Jim’s face is torn between annoyance and pleasure. Ross laughs dropping a kiss on Jim’s forehead.

“Dwarf,” he says with a smile.

“You’re going to regret saying that later.” Jim’s eyes flash.

“Sure I am,” Ross laughs and shoulders his own bag. “I’ll see you back at the apartment.”

Hours later: “Am I still a dwarf?” Jim queries, his finger combing through Ross’ chest hair.. “Hmmm?”

Ross is beyond words; he whines in response.

* * *

Years later they buy this particular house because Ross has fallen in love with the way the snow lays on the steep gables and how the sidewalk wind from the street to their front door. Jim would have preferred something in the valley, but Ross loves the smell of sub-alpine forest that surrounds them. And, if Jim is honest with himself, the last time he sat with his toes curled in the sand on an empty beach, he wished he was sitting in the snow with Ross.

Another thing that Ross loves about winter is Christmas, he especially loves white Christmases. He has many fond memories of waking up while it was still dark and running out into the snow barefoot to check for reindeer footprints. His family always had loud—sometimes boisterous but sometimes angry—Christmases. They would cut down their own trees and decorate them while drinking hot chocolate when they were little and wine as they got older. 

* * *

“What do you mean you’ve never cut down a Christmas tree before?” Ross’ eyes are wide with surprise. He is busy hanging garland on the fireplace of the small apartment that they got together after graduating.

Jim shrugs. “We didn’t really _do_ Christmas…” He turns the page of his book and sinks further into the couch cushions and the blanket that he is wrapped in.

“How did you not _do_ Christmas?” 

Jim shrugs again.

“We’ll go together. You’ll love it!”

Jim grunts. “Traipsing around in the snow isn’t my idea of fun.”

“You say that, but you decided to go to a school pretty far north, and now you live in a town in the foothills.”

Jim looks up raising his eyebrows, “Don’t make it sound like sometimes I don’t regret that second decision. I had to scrape snow off my car starting in October. Do you even realize how _disgusting_ that is?”

Ross flounces over to the couch, “For me?” 

Jim looks up at Ross’ cheerful, puppy dog face, “Fine, but don’t expect me to like it.”

“You’ll love it!” Ross peppers Jim’s face with kisses until he cannot help but smile. 

* * *

“Ross?” The mattress dips when Jim sits on the edge. 

Ross groans when Jim gently shakes his shoulder. “Go’way.”

“Today’s tree day, or had you forgotten?” 

Ross rolls on to his side with difficulty and struggles into a sitting position, “I hab not forgo’en.”

Jim pushes a hot cup of coffee into Ross’ limp hands. “Are you feeling okay?”

Ross stares vacantly at the cream swirling in the coffee. He slowly shakes his head and looks out the window where thick, new snow is piled against the window.

When Jim’s hand pushes its way through Ross’ errant curls to press his palm to his forehead, Ross flinches way because its cold.

“I don’t think you have a fever,” Jim says. “But I think you should stay in bed.”

“I can go,” Ross says. He weakly puts the mug back into Jim’s hands before turning and swinging his legs over the side. His toes touch the chilled hardwood floor. He leans forward to stand up, but everything goes fuzzy and his head feels empty. Instead of standing he flops himself onto his down pillows.

“I can get the tree,” Jim says gently. He climbs out of the bed and walks around it so he can tuck the duvet around Ross’ prone body.

“Bud ah wanna go,” Ross mumbles.

He does not notice Jim leave until Jim is pushing two pills and a glass of water into his fingers. “Drink this and take these,” he orders and Ross complies.

“I’ll get it, babe.” Jim smooths back Ross’ thick curls and drops a kiss onto his forehead. Ross is already asleep.

Ross wakes up hours later to the sounds of Jim fighting to get the Christmas tree through the front door of their steeply gabled house. There are many thumps, lots of swears, and a few times when the tree is unceremoniously dropped on the floor. Ross would go join him and offer his help, but his head spins and his hands shake so he pulls the blankets closer and watches what he can through the open bedroom door. 

Eventually Jim appears in it. His face is red and normally neat hair stands on end. He toes off his boots and crawls on top of the duvet and lays down next to Ross. 

“You’re lucky I love you,” Jim mumbles into Ross’ shoulder. “It was cold and wet.”

By that evening Ross is feeling better; he is feeling good enough to decorate the tree. Which turns into him sitting on the couch wrapped in an afghan while he instructs Jim on how and where to hang their ornaments.

“Not there,” Ross orders, “there’s already a green bulb just there. Hang it a little higher.”

Jim’s gaze borders on murderous. Ross almost laughs at the ridiculousness of the contrast between Jim’s face and the cheerful Christmas comedy movie that is playing on the television.

Ross moves to put down his hot chocolate—Ross refused to give him any wine on account of the copious cold medicine he had been taking all day, “I can do it myself.”

“No. I can do it. Just stay there.” Jim hangs the green Christmas bulb a bit higher before he walks over to Ross to re-tuck his afghan around his shoulders and crossed legs. Jim lowers himself on the couch next to Ross and pulls another blanket over his own lap. Jim drops his head against Ross’ shoulder and balances his wine glass on his thigh. He does not watch the movie, nor does he look at the multicolored lights on their partially decorated tree, instead he listens to Ross’ snuffly breathing and looks out the window where he can see fat snowflakes floating to the ground to coat the world in their soft, white blanket.


End file.
